Proud
by rittenden
Summary: A stressful situation seen through a father's eyes. Oneshot.


"All right, all right – just calm down," Don soothed. "Calm down, okay? You don't want this getting out of hand."

The man in front of him sneered. "And just what do you think is happening here, huh?"

Don held up his hands in a placating manner. "Nothing major – so far – but you don't want it getting any worse, right? Am I right?"

If the situation wasn't so serious, or my head didn't hurt so much, I'd probably be grinning like an idiot by now. My son – he of the scraped knees and knocked-out front teeth – all grown up and negotiating with an armed robber like he was bargaining for baseball cards. It's hard to believe sometimes. Especially now.

Trying to ignore the throbbing at the back of my head, I look over to where the other hostages are sitting huddled together next to the deli cooler. There are only four of us – five, counting Don – but it's way too many. The only person on their feet besides Don is the gunman, and he doesn't look too stable. I don't mean physically (he's fit as a fiddle, more's the pity) but mentally. He looks like he's about to snap.

It was supposed to be a simple thing. Just a quick trip to the store to pick up a few snacks for the game. I would have gone myself, but my car went in for service yesterday and won't be done until the end of the week. Don offered to go alone but… at my age a lot of things a man needs at the store don't make it onto a grocery list. It's only when you're standing in the aisle staring at the shelves that you realize you're out of Tabasco sauce – or something equally obscure.

Don's tone has dropped again. He sounds a bit like me in my younger days. When the boys had caught the 'flu or something and Margaret had worn herself out tending to them. They never seemed to get sick alone, those two. Always both. I'd wake up with Margaret elbowing me in the ribs, telling me it was 'my turn' to get Charlie a drink of water or Donny a cold washcloth, and I'd go into their rooms talking just like Don is now. Low and soothing. It always seemed to make them feel better.

I look back at the others. A woman with two children about age ten – boy and girl – and the bag boy. At least, I think they still call them bag boys. By now they've probably changed the title to something androgynous like 'grocery packers'. I'm not sure where the cashier went. I thought I saw her duck out the door behind the dairy coolers. I hope so.

Lifting my head hurts – that guy with the gun hit me – but I find myself unable to stop. Something about the way Don is standing, talking to that… criminal… draws my attention like the proverbial moth to a flame. Don's hands are by his sides now and he's still talking in that low voice, like he's got something special to say to him. I've got a few things I'd like to say to him, too, but somehow I think that would be counter-productive. Not to mention it would make Don madder than hell.

Instead, I watch my son at work. It's not often I get to see him like this. Not in the middle of some confrontation, but in his element. Doing what he was meant to do. Oh sure, at one time I thought I had a major-leaguer on my hands and I bragged about him to all my buddies, but in a way I'm glad it didn't work out. Baseball was good for Don – but it wasn't Don. It was physically and mentally taxing, it's true, but there was something missing in him then that I can see now.

Passion.

He was a good ball player – a great ball player, actually – but he wasn't passionate about it. He had the drive but no fire. It's hard to explain. Watching him now, I can see it – a little spark in his eyes, wheels turning furiously in his head. I wonder what he's thinking right now. He looks calm. I know he isn't, though. A father can sense these things. Underneath I'm pretty sure Don is controlling an overwhelming urge to punch this guy right in the mouth. He's not close enough, though. The guy doesn't trust him enough for that. Which is probably a good thing.

Don hasn't said much about his training at the FBI academy at Quantico, but I've done a little research of my own. I know for a fact that Don was at the top of most of his classes there and I know that they taught him things like disarming a suspect and hand-to-hand combat. A few feet forward and Don would have the guy on the ground – minus his gun – in no time flat.

The guy seems to be relaxing a bit. Grab him Don! Grab him! He's not doing it. I wonder why? I look over to where the others are sitting. Of course. The hostages. Don's probably thinking it's not worth it – that the gun might go off and someone might get hurt. That would be just like him. I notice him shift a bit to keep himself between the gun and the hostages. I want to scream at him – to tell him to stop being such a hero – but I won't do it. I know what he's doing and why… and I won't do it.

Don's head comes up a bit, like the guy's said something he didn't like. Damn these old ears! There was a time I could have heard a pin drop from across the room, but now… Whatever it is they're talking about, the gunman's getting agitated again and Don's standing stiff – like he's expecting the worst. He used to do that when he was little, too. I'd stand him next to the counter in the kitchen, ready to ask who broke Mrs. Durridge's window, and his little spine would go ramrod straight and he'd look me right in the eye. If he did it, he'd say so. If he didn't, he'd clam up so tight you'd wonder if he'd gotten lockjaw. It scared me sometimes, the way he'd just stare at me, his mouth in a thin line. Almost as if he was daring me to make him talk.

He still doesn't talk. Especially these days. I know something's been bothering him lately – whether it's the cases he's been working on or the job itself, I don't know – but he doesn't say what it is. Sometimes I feel like I did back then. I just want to grab him by the shoulders and shake the words out of him but I know it won't work. Don won't talk before he's ready. Never has and probably never will. He's like his mother that way, I suppose. One of the things that made Margaret such a good litigator. She knew when to talk and when not to. And when she wanted you to talk, you talked. I never knew how she did it, but whenever she wanted me to tell her something, I found myself gabbing until the cows came home.

The gunman has moved away from Don now. He's going over to the windows and Don – Don's following him, still talking in that quiet, commanding voice of his. He got that from Margaret, too. It was as if her musical experience taught her just what register to speak in for maximum effect. Eerie, the way those two were so alike. But Charlie was like her, too. Only different. They had some kind of rapport I never could grasp. We're getting better, Charlie and me, but I still don't understand him. The good thing is we've gotten to a point in our lives where I don't have to. I know that just making sure he can do his thing is all the understanding he needs. Don doesn't want to be understood. He doesn't want anyone to know what makes him tick. I know he sees some pretty horrible stuff, but 'no man is an island', to quote somebody-or-other.

Don's made some offhand remarks about his work. Once, when I was asking him about his relationships or lack thereof, he spit out some garbage about lack of topics for conversation. Sometimes I think Don does it on purpose – pushes people away, throws up obstacles – as a way of protecting them. Other times… I think he's protecting himself. As if letting someone under that 'Federal Agent' mask would be like scooping a turtle out of its shell. He doesn't want anyone to get to the soft, tender part of Don Eppes.

The little girl is sniffling now, trying to keep quiet while she cries. Poor thing is terrified. Her brother looks like he's trying to be brave. I feel a smile start and I look up at their mother. She's frightened, too, but she smiles back right before she kisses them both on the tops of their heads.

I look over at Don. He's managed to get a little closer to the gunman, but it still isn't close enough. More importantly he's been able to get the guy further away from the hostages – from us. I guess I'm a hostage, too. Never really gave it much thought. Since I'm not the one with the gun, and I'm in here instead of outside… Yeah. Looks like the textbook definition of 'hostage' to me. It's strange. You read books, watch movies and television, and every time there's a madman with a gun and hostages, they're frantic and pleading and basically acting like they're sure they're going to be shot any second. It's not like that, really. Not for me, anyway. Maybe it's because Don is here, talking to the gunman – I don't know – but somehow this whole scenario just seems so… surreal… to me.

Don's voice comes up in volume suddenly and I can finally make out what they're saying. Don's waving his hand toward the window, making the guy look at whatever's out there. It's only then that I notice the lights. Red and blue, flickering on the walls. The cavalry's arrived. I guess that cashier did get out, after all. Good girl.

"Look at them!" Don says loudly. "You think they're just going to let you walk out of here and be on your way? You're dreaming, man!"

The gunman's backed himself into a corner by the window, staring through it with a look of panic on his face. "I've got hostages," he says.

Oh, great. Now he remembers he's got hostages. He looks at us for a long minute and I can see something clicking in his head. Don…

"Yeah, you've got hostages," Don agrees. If it wasn't for this headache, I'd shake my head. What the heck is he thinking? "But you haven't done anything yet – that'll go in your favor."

"I hit the old man." Now wait just one second, here. Who are you calling old? I bet I can still knock you on your-

Don interrupts my mental tirade. "Listen to me, man. So far all you're guilty of is holding us against our will and carrying. If you try to use us to get out of here… that's terrorism. You know what they do to terrorists nowadays?"

The guy swallows and looks at Don. He doesn't seem to have noticed yet that Don's gotten closer to him, but I have. Get him! Punch him in the face!

Good Lord – when did I get so bloodthirsty? I guess, underneath the pain and weariness, I am a little scared. I know Don can take him, though. He just needs the opportunity. I could do that – provide some kind of distraction – so Don can take him down. He'd be furious, though. Even supposing everything turned out okay, when all is said and done, Don would be hopping mad. As much as I want to help him, I think I'll sit this one out. Don, livid, is not a pretty scene.

Even so, sitting on this hard tile floor is beginning to make me sore. I apologize silently to my son as I shift my weight onto my other hip, hoping against hope that the gunman either doesn't notice or doesn't think I'm trying to be a hero.

The guy does notice and the gun comes up. Wonderful. Just what I was trying to avoid. Don glances over his shoulder at me. I can't read his eyes. Just as I open my mouth to tell him I'm sorry for the distraction Don moves.

Either that was really fast, or it's taking me longer to blink than normal, because the next thing I know Don's got the guy on the ground, one knee against the back of his neck, and he's putting handcuffs on him. Of course Don would have handcuffs – he's never really off-duty. The guy's pistol has slid across the floor towards us and I can see the bag boy eyeing it distrustfully. Good boy. Guns aren't something to be trifled with. He moves his foot as though to kick it away again, but Don says "Don't." Just that one word and the bag boy's frozen again. Yep. Just like his mother. She'd be so proud.

There's cops coming through the door now. Don's getting up and he pulls the guy up with him. He hands him off to one of the cops, telling him he wants his handcuffs back. The cop pulls out another pair of cuffs, puts them on the gunman and then unlocks Don's and hands them back. Don nods at him and then steps in front of them, his face barely inches from the guy under arrest. He looks like he wants to say something – his eyes have that fire in them – but instead he backs up, telling the cop to take him away.

**

No matter how old you get, your children never learn to listen to you. I've been telling Don for half an hour that I'm fine. I just want to go home, take a couple of aspirin and have a soak in the tub. The paramedic agrees with me. I have a headache. That's all. Well, that, and a lump the size of a quarter on the back of my head. It only hurts if someone pokes at it and I'm not about to. Don's arguing with the medic, though. He wants her to take me to the hospital to get a CT scan. The way he's rattling off possible problems associated with a whack on the head makes me suspicious. He knows a little too much about it, I think.

Another cop comes up and asks me for my statement. Don cuts him off mid-sentence and tells him it can wait until after I've been checked out. Dammit, I have been checked out! This nice young lady has examined my eyes, ears, blood pressure… Next thing you know, Don will be demanding a colonoscopy, for god's sake.

"Enough," I say. It really is enough. Now that the whole thing's over and done with, I just want to get back to my chair – I don't care if Charlie did buy the house. That chair is still my chair, and I want it. Now. "Don… if you're not going to drive me home, then ask one of these officers to do it. Or call your brother. Or a taxi. I'm leaving."

Don looks like he wants to fight about it. His eyes have narrowed the way they do when he's considering what to say. I can see him turning over ideas in his head and then throwing them away. When he hits on something he thinks will work, I can see that, too. He opens his mouth but I cut him off again. "Don…"

"Alright," he sighs. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cell phone – to call his brother, probably – but he doesn't get a chance to use it.

"Dad! Don!" We both turn toward the voice. Charlie's at the edge of the crowd of onlookers, trying to get past the police barricade. For all his intellectual prowess, my youngest son still doesn't look that authoritative. It's Don who gets him through, waving a hand at the officer holding Charlie back. He's beside us in seconds, demanding to know what happened. Apparently the story was on the evening news and Charlie had been walking past the television when it came on. We hadn't said where we were going when we left, but Don's big Suburban was parked next to the front door – and Charlie has a thing for numbers. All it took was one brief glimpse of the license plate and he was out the door like a shot.

Bad pun.

Don's trying to talk Charlie over to his side, telling him how I got hit on the head and how he thinks I should be on my way to the hospital. Charlie will agree with him – as sure as the sun rises in the east – so I speak before he has the chance. "I'm going home."

"Dad…" Charlie's got that 'be reasonable' look on his face that he uses on his students. I'm way past university age and, therefore, out past my bedtime. "It won't take long. Just let them take you to the hospital and get checked out." He looks at his brother. "We'd feel better."

Now he's got that look on his face. The 'puppy look', Margaret used to call it. Apparently he inherited it from me. I look at Don. He's watching me, waiting for me to give in, but I won't do it. After everything that's happened tonight – everything we've been through – all I want is the peace and quiet of my home. "Uh uh," I say. "I said I was going home and I meant it. No arguments."

They both sigh. I've won. No scans for me tonight. I might let them talk me into it tomorrow, if it'll make them feel better, but not tonight. I deliberately used my 'father' tone of voice and they both know I mean it. Margaret would be proud of me, too.

Just before we reach Charlie's little blue Prius, I grab Don's arm to hold him back so we can talk without his brother overhearing. "Don," I say. "I just want you to know…"

He waits. I'm not sure how to put into words what I want to say next and I can tell it makes him uneasy. His spine stiffens again.

I try again. "I just wanted to say… You might have been a great baseball player some day."

Don's brow furrows. I can tell he's rethinking having me carted off to the hospital. "Uh… okay," he says. "Thanks. But what…"

"You might have been a great baseball player," I repeat. "But you're a fantastic law enforcement officer." I put a hand on his shoulder. He doesn't like hugs, although that's what I feel like doing right now. "I'm glad I was with Special Agent Eppes tonight."

A smile twitches at the corners of his lips. "That's good."

"Yeah," I agree. "But I also want you to know – I am very, very proud of _my son_ tonight."

He does smile now, and it's brighter than mid-day sun. People around us turn to look at him. Don has that effect when he smiles. "Yeah? That's good, too."

There's so much more I want to say to him, but I know it'll just make him uncomfortable. It's the same thing that shuts him up like a drum when he really should talk. I hope, some day, somehow, that he finds a way to get it all off his chest and out in the open before it hurts him bad enough to leave scars. "If we go now," I say instead. "We might be able to catch the after-game wrap up."

Don looks at the officers milling around us. He's thinking he should stay, make a report, maybe help them out in some way. After a second he turns back to me. "Sounds like a plan, Dad," he says. "I'll just go get my truck."

**END**


End file.
